Chapter 14
Stella:
"Hey beautiful," he slurred, swaying slightly as he moved to center himself in the narrow corridor. "Where you going so fast?"
I stopped, maintaining distance, keeping my voice level and firm. "Excuse me. I need to get back to my table."
"Aw, come on." He took a step closer. The hallway was maybe four feet wide here, lined with decorative plants in heavy ceramic pots. No room to easily get around him. "Don't be like that. Have a drink with me. Just one drink."
"No, thank you." I moved to step around him on the left, but he mirrored the movement, still blocking my way. My heart rate kicked up a notch. "Please move aside."
"Ooh, feisty." His grin widened, showing yellowed teeth. "I like that. Come on, baby, just be nice—"
"I'm asking you politely to let me pass." My voice came out harder now, the professor tone I used when a student crossed a line. "Step aside."
Instead of complying, he lurched forward. His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, fingers digging in with surprising strength for someone so drunk. "Don't be such a bitch about it—"
"Let go of me." I tried to pull back, but his grip tightened. Real fear spiked through my chest now, sharp and cold. The training flashed through my mind—stomp on his instep, knee to the groin, scream for help—but my body felt frozen, caught between professional composure and genuine panic.
"Just one drink," he insisted, pulling me closer. The smell of him made my stomach turn. "What's the harm in—"
"Stay away from her."
The voice came from behind the drunk man, low and absolutely cold.
I looked up and saw Noah striding down the hallway toward us, his expression transformed into something I'd never seen before—a kind of controlled fury that made him look years older, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with age.
"Now," Noah added, his tone dropping even lower as he closed the distance between them.
The drunk man turned, still gripping my wrist, and let out a bark of laughter. "Who the fuck are you? Her boyfriend?"
Noah didn't answer. He just stepped forward and shoved the man's shoulder, hard enough to make him stumble backward and finally release me. I gasped, cradling my wrist against my chest, feeling the ghost of those fingers still digging into my skin.
"I said let go," Noah repeated, positioning himself between me and the drunk man.
"You wanna go, kid?" The drunk man's face flushed red with sudden aggression, the kind of ugly anger that came from being challenged while intoxicated. "You think you're tough?"
He swung.
Noah ducked to the side—that basketball-trained reaction speed on full display—but the second punch caught him on the cheekbone. I heard the impact, saw Noah's head snap to the side, and then everything happened too fast to fully process.
Noah's fist connected with the drunk man's jaw. They crashed into the wall, knocking over one of the decorative plants with a tremendous crash of breaking ceramic. The drunk man grabbed Noah's shirt, they spun, slammed into the opposite wall.
"Stop!" The word tore out of me as I fumbled for my phone, fingers shaking so badly I almost dropped it. "Stop it!"
I managed to pull up the emergency call screen just as running footsteps echoed down the hallway. Tyler and Marcus appeared first, eyes wide with shock.
"Holy shit!" Tyler lunged forward, grabbing Noah around the waist and hauling him backward. Marcus got between them, hands up. "Dude, stop! Noah, stop!"
Emily rushed up behind them, her face pale. "What's happening? Stella, are you—"
"I'm calling the police." My voice sounded strange, too calm, like it belonged to someone else. I pressed the phone to my ear as it started ringing.
The restaurant manager appeared, a short man in a button-down shirt and tie, his face flushed with alarm. "I'm calling the cops! Everyone needs to calm down right now!"
"Already done," I told him, and then the dispatcher answered.
I gave the information mechanically—address, situation, assault. The drunk man was still trying to lunge at Noah, but Marcus and the manager had him blocked now. Noah stood with Tyler's hands on his shoulders, breathing hard, a cut on his lip bleeding down his chin.
The whole thing probably lasted less than two minutes. It felt like hours.
---
The police arrived ten minutes later—two officers, one older with gray at his temples, one younger and built like he spent his off-hours at the gym. They separated everyone, took statements in different corners of the now-crowded hallway.
I told the older officer exactly what happened. Unwanted approach. Physical contact. Refusal to let me leave. The officer's expression grew progressively grimmer as I spoke.
"And then the young man intervened?" he asked, nodding toward where Noah sat on a bench near the entrance, the younger officer talking to him.
"Yes. He told the man to let me go. The man became aggressive and threw the first punch."
The officer wrote it all down, then went to confer with his partner. I watched them talk to the drunk man, who was now sitting on the curb outside, still belligerent but less coordinated. Public intoxication. Assault. The words drifted back to me through the open door.
They arrested him. Put him in the back of the patrol car while he shouted slurred protests about how he was just being friendly, just trying to talk to a pretty lady, what was the harm in that.
I stood there watching the red and blue lights paint the parking lot, feeling oddly detached from my own body.
"Professor Morrison."
I turned. Emily stood beside me, her hand hovering near my elbow like she wanted to touch me but wasn't sure if she should. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"
"I'm fine." I looked down at my wrist. There would probably be bruises tomorrow, finger-shaped marks. "I'm fine."
"Noah's asking about you." Emily glanced over her shoulder to where Noah still sat on that bench, Tyler and Marcus flanking him like bodyguards.
The cut on his lip had stopped bleeding but his cheek was already starting to swell. "He wants to know if you're alright."